As Colman listened the guardedness was there in his face, the echoes of old anger and shattering grief. They had been on opposite sides of the issue then, and it was clear in his expression, in his careful eyes and slightly pinched lips, and above all in the tightness in his body as he sat, one leg still crossed over the other. His fists were closed, his muscles rigid. They were opponents still. That would never be forgotten.

“Nolan Baltimore has been murdered,” Monk stated. He saw Colman’s start of surprise, then a gleam of satisfaction, and immediately afterwards guilt for it, even a flush in his cheeks. But he was in no haste to express the usual regrets. There was an honesty in him which prevented it.

“By a prostitute,” Monk added. “While in the pursuit of somewhat irregular pleasures.”

Disgust was plain in Colman’s eyes.

“And that brings you here?” he said in disbelief.

“Not directly,” Monk replied. “But it does mean we cannot question him about anything to do with what very much appears to be another fraud in Baltimore and Sons, almost exactly like the first.”

Colman sat upright with a jolt. “Another? But Dundas is dead, poor soul. You, of all people, must know that. Surely your memory cannot be so affected . . . I mean . . .” He stopped.

Monk rescued him in his embarrassment. “I remember that. But what I don’t recall is how the fraud was discovered . . . not in detail. You see, it seems this time as if a man named Dalgarno is responsible, only the person who was his main accuser is also dead . . . murdered.” He saw the pity in Colman’s face, this time unmixed with anything else. “A woman,” Monk continued. “She was betrothed to him, and because of her privileged position as his fiancée, discovered certain things about the business, overheard conversations, saw papers, which made her realize there was something seriously wrong. She brought it to me. I investigated it as far as I was able, but I could find no fraud. A little questionable profiteering, but that’s all.”

“But she was murdered?” Colman interrupted, leaning forward with urgency.

“Yes. And Dalgarno is charged with it. But in order to prove his guilt we need to show the fraud beyond question.”

“I see.” It was clear from his expression that he understood perfectly. “What is it that you want of me?”

“You were the one who first suspected fraud. Why?”

Colman frowned. He was clearly fascinated by the concept of such total loss from the mind of something in which Monk had been passionately involved. “You really remember nothing of it?” His voice thickened with emotion; his body became rigid. “You don’t remember my church? In the valley, with the old trees around it? The graveyard?”

Monk struggled, but nothing came. He was picturing it in his mind, but it was imagination, not memory. He shook his head.